Not even he could paint the rain.
(Imagine trying to touch each drop
With the fingered tip of a brush!)
Perhaps trying drove him insane.
He was the master of the crop
Of wheat, of twisted tree and bush.
He caught killers dying in bars
And erased the night sky with stars.
He effaced himself with his eyes,
Made more of sunrise than sunrise.
Rain he could only imitate —
Slashing the canvas with his sword
Again and again — intimate
What is clouded inside the word.
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